Counterbalance
by thornbug
Summary: Set almost two years post the finale in a universe where Peter Bishop never existed, Olivia Dunham begins to receive dream-like visits from a stranger who knows more about her than he should.
1. Chapter 1 : Cognizance

**Title:** Counterbalance

**Rating**: K+

**Summary:** Set almost two years post the finale in a universe where Peter Bishop never existed, Olivia Dunham begins to receive dream-like visits from a stranger who knows more about her than he should.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Fringe or anything associated with Fringe.

_They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night._

EDGAR ALLAN POE

**Chapter One: Cognizance**

There's a crack in the ceiling. It's not particularly long or gaping, but it's there, just above her head, thin as a strand of hair. It wasn't there last week, she's pretty sure of it since she's spent a considerable amount of time staring up at that very spot. Ceiling fans, window panes, the fluorescent glow of street lamps - to an insomniac, such things become familiar landscapes. It isn't that sleep evades her. On the contrary, there are nights when her body feels so heavy with fatigue that she worries she'll topple over if the wind blows hard enough. Sleep isn't the problem. The problem lies somewhere in those hours of silence and darkness when she's completely unguarded and alone. It creeps through her like a virus, infecting every cell, every nerve, whispering lyrics from songs she's never heard, painting with colours she's never seen. She wakes up screaming, sometimes in sobs, remnants of the nightmare fleeing like ash in the wind. And yet she is affected, always so deeply affected. And so, she has learned that the less sleep she allows herself, the less chance it has of touching her.

The sun is beginning to creep into the room, sneaking through the window and down the wall, over the carpet on eventually onto her bed, warming her. She turns to face it, feeling marginally better as the early morning glow washes over her face. She's always loved sunrise.

She watches the segmented blue numbers on her clock-radio change from 6:59 to 7:00. And so, the morning ritual begins. Workout, shower, clothing, coffee. It's a simple order that she appreciates. An order that requires little thought. She runs on automatic, her internal monologue is mostly static, as if someone's jammed the aerial. It hurts too much to think when she's alone, when she can't find escape in the preoccupation of her job. Since the closing of 'The Bridge' almost six months prior, things have been slower, she hesitates to think easier, but it's true. The world has, in a sense exhaled and relaxed. At times she wonders if she's the only person on the planet who still feels lost in the storm.

She sits in her office, new, shiny, bigger than the one she had a three months ago and wonders what the hell that title on the door means. _Special Investigations._ Since the closing of the bridge, Fringe events have been few and far between and the head-honchos up in DC had decided that there was no need for a task team dedicated specifically to those unique cases. So instead, they had lured Broyles over there with promises of the senate and installed a new task force to deal with the after effects of the 'The Bridge', which really meant tracking down the few fugitives who escaped through the portal in those last few days then the tear between the two universes was more like a door. They had had security of course, on both sides, but that didn't stop the determined few from slipping through the cracks.

"You look like hell."

The deep, raspy voice tugs her out of her thoughts. She looks up at the man standing above her. She didn't even hear him come in. He's staring down at her with a small smile and two cups of coffee in his hands.

"Aw, Charlie," she says, returning his smile and taking the coffee from him. "Just what every girl wants to hear."

His smile widens and he sits down in the swivel chair opposite her desk. "Rough night?" He leans back in the chair and takes a swig of his coffee.

She looks down at her shirt then back up at him. "What, do I look that bad?"

"Nah, you look tired is all. Still intimidating enough to scare the new kid." He raises his eyebrows with a slight smile.

"The new kid?" She clicks her mouse and frowns at the computer screen for a second. "I didn't know we're getting anyone new."

"Yeah, they sent him down from Hartford. A Special Agent Lee."

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Lincoln Lee?"

"Yeah," Charlie finishes off his coffee in one long sip. "You know him?"

"I knew his…alternate," she says in a low voice. "I met him on the 'Bridge Project.'"

"You're kidding me." He shakes his head. "Well what are the odds, right?"

"Right," she agrees, her tone almost wistful.

"Anyway, I thought about pairing him with Astrid. They're both sorta new to field work, but it could be a good match."

"Have you spoken to Astrid yet?"

"Nah, I thought I'd run it by you first, boss." He says this with a straight face, but there's amusement glittering in his eyes.

"Ha. Ha." She says drily. "It's fine with me. Speak to Astrid. If she has a problem, tell her she can come see me."

He gives a mock salute and makes off towards the door.

"Hey Charlie,"

"Yeah?"

She opens her mouth to speak, then hesitates before saying, "Thanks for the coffee."

Charlie nods once, understanding. "Anytime."

The rest of the morning is tedious, spent organising files and case-reports, all the fun stuff cop-shows on TV never show you. By 11am, she's on her third cup of coffee and exhausted by the monotony of it all.

At 11:16 she gets a fax from a contact at the Brooklyn Police Department and her morning gets exponentially better.

She dials Charlie's extension. "Hey Charlie, can you get the team together? We've got a lead on the Ferelli case."

She stands in front of six attentive faces, all waiting for their commands. She's used to being given briefings by Broyles or whoever else is in charge, but this is her task-force, she's the one giving the orders.

"A few minutes ago I received a message from the New York Police Department. Eryan Ferelli has been spotted in Brooklyn, New York. Now for those of you who have not yet caught up, Ferelli is wanted for series of homicides committed on November 3rd 2012. An unknown man was found in Eyran Ferelli's home, along with his wife and two daughters, both minors. All were murdered by Ferelli. Motives for these murders are yet unknown. Up until the crime, Ferelli was described as an up-standing husband and father. Details are in your case reports."

The bespectacled, man in a neat charcoal suit sitting between Astrid and Charlie holds up his hand.

"Agent Lee. We haven't been formally introduced." She had noticed him immediately of course. Noticed how completely different he was from his alternate counterpart. Still, there was something about him that she intrinsically liked, something about his eyes, she supposed. "Good to have you with us."

"Thank you, Agent Dunham…Ma'am." he pushes his glasses further up his nose.

Agent Kent wipes his hand over his mouth, to hide his smile and she shoots him a warning glance.

"Just Agent Dunham's fine. Did you have a question?"

"Yeah, uh yes." He shuffles in his chair before speaking. "The uh, the case-report mentioned that the John Doe found in Ferelli's household was abnormally disfigured. Are we to assume that Ferelli purposefully obscured the man's identity?"

"So far, we have no evidence to prove that either way, but it's not out of the realm of possibility, so I want him brought in unharmed if possible." She crosses her arms over her chest. "Agents Francis will accompany me to New York. Agent Lee, I want you to come along as well. Kent, you and Agent Farnsworth are to keep an eye on communications, see if anything crops up now that Ferelli's on the move."

They nod assiduously, each understanding their roles in this unique little unit. It's not easy leading the charge of a male-dominated army, never has been but she takes pride in the fact she's here, that she's made it to the top of this bureaucratic ladder in one piece, proud of the fact that, despite all they've been through in the past few months, she's leading a team of people who still fighting to make a difference however hard it may be.

"Alright," she says, giving them a final nod, "Let's go."

New York is cold and crowded and smells of car fumes and hot-dog stalls. People walk with their heads down and their backs hunched, weaving past each other as a tangled mass of human drones. Somewhere in that tangled mass is Ferelli, she thinks, staring out of the car window as they cross into Brooklyn. Ferelli who killed his entire family. She isn't easily rattled, not after years of seeing what she's seen, especially not after the last few, but something about the callousness of Ferelli's actions, something about how those two little girls looked, lying there, bullets in their heads, chilled her to bone. She doesn't get it. All her life she's been able to understand motives and intentions, but this, this has her stumped.

As they stop at a traffic light, she notices a man, standing at the bus-stop. He seems to be staring at her, which is impossible through tinted windows, yet he inclines his head, ever so slightly and she's almost sure he sees her. Even more strange is his grey suit and fedora. He looks almost…sad, she thinks, just before they drive off.

Charlie makes a left onto Ocean Avenue and glances at her. "You okay?"

She turns to look at him and swishes her mouth to one side. "Yeah, I'm just thinking about Ferelli. He didn't pack any clothes or take any money. It's like, all he wanted was to be alone, by himself, you know?"

"Well, studies have shown that sociopaths have a proclivity towards solitude. Maybe he got tired of having a family, keeping up the act." Agent Lee's voice pipes up from the backseat. Both she and Charlie turn back for a second, having forgotten he was there at all.

"I suppose," she says. "That still doesn't explain the unknown man though."

"Alright," Charlie pulls up in front of a crumbling apartment block on Foster Avenue. "We're here."

All three of them exit the vehicle, guns in hand. She leads them in, with Agent Lee in the middle and Charlie flanking. They go up one flight of stairs, guns held low, arms straight down, knees bent as they silently creep. The corridors are dark and musty, they smell like weed and vomit and last night's dinner. She resists the urge to gag. She and Agent Lee take opposite ends of the door, while Charlie stands in front of it and knocks - gently at first. After five seconds of no response, he looks at her and she nods before he kicks in the door. There's something about that move that she finds undeniably appealing. Not that she'd ever tell him that of course.

They sweep the place in less than a minute only to find it almost completely bare save for the lumpy mattress against the radiator.

"You sure he still lives here?" Charlie asks, running his finger over the dusty ledge.

She raises a shoulder. "Apparently."

"Well if he does, he's not eating much." Agent Lee opens the fridge to find nothing but a jug of water and a couple of thermometers.

"What the hell is goin' on here?" Three pairs of eyes turn to the door, where a geriatric, balding man wearing only boxer shorts and a stained vest stands scowling at them.

Simultaneously, they flip their badges. "FBI," comes the generic pass. She steps forward and holds out her hand. "I'm Agent Dunham, these are my colleagues. We're looking for a Mr Ferelli do you know where we can find him?"

The old man shakes his head. "Ferelli? Nah, I ain't seen no Ferelli. Lenny lives here. Good man. Pays his rent on time."

"Mr - ?"

"Greeves. Name's Greeves. I'm the supa here."

"Mr Greeves," she digs into her pocket and pulls out the folded fax she has from the NYPD. Attached is a picture of Ferelli. "Is this Lenny?"

"Yeah, that's him. He in some kinda trouble?"

"Do you know where we can find him?" Charlie asks, stepping forward.

Mr Greeves shrugged a bony shoulder. "I reckon he'd be comin' home right about now. Takes the L train, on DeKalb."

"Thank you," she says swiftly and motions for the others to follow her.

"You think we can catch him on the station?" Charlie asks, knowing the way her mind works.

"We can sure as hell try."

"So Agent Lee, you play poker?" Charlie leans back turns slightly to look at the younger agent sitting in the back.

"Um, poker?" Agent Lee adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, I can play. I mean, I haven't since college, but sure, I guess it's like riding a bike, right?"

"Somethin' like that." Charlie smiles. "Anyway, the guys sometimes get together to play poker on Wednesdays, you should come this week, get acquainted with the locals."

Agent Lee finds himself grinning. "Yeah? I'd love to. I mean…" He clears his throat, "Sure okay. Agent Dunham, will you be there?"

She puts down the binoculars she's holding to watch the subway entrance across the street and laughs slightly. "No, uh, they don't let me play cards with them anymore."

"Well why not?"

"Because she cheats is why not," Charlie says, fixing her with a pointed stare.

"I don't cheat," she replies innocently.

"Oh please," he turns to Agent Lee, "It was, wait," he looks back at her, "how many weeks was it before we realised you were countin' cards?"

She gives him a close mouthed smile and shrugs carelessly. "I'm good with numbers."

He rolls his eyes, "Yeah, well next time I go to Vegas, you're comin' along."

She shakes her head and brings the binoculars back to her face just as a plethora of people emerge from the tunnel. "Hey what time is it?"

"4:15."

"I think this is it."

They scan the crowd intensely for the next few minutes before Agent Lee spots him. "There," he yells. "There in the grey coat, it's Ferelli."

Charlie cocks his gun, they follow.

They're halfway across the street when Ferelli looks up and catches her eye. It's a brief moment, not even a second, but she sees it: recognition. And then he's off.

He turns around, back into the crowd, fighting through the barrage of people coming up in the opposite direction. "He's spotted us," she yells, before taking off after him, barely checking if they've heard her, focused solely on the Ferelli's disappearing form.

He's making his back down the steps, back towards the station, hoping to get lost in the throng of bustling strangers. And he almost does. She's fighting to get through them, fighting to move between bodies that are pushing to get past her. She hears herself say, "Excuse me," and then, "Move!" and eventually she's yelling, "FBI, outta the way!" and most of them are giving way, but he's still a couple of feet ahead of her and if he gets on another train it's over.

She watches him jump over the turn-style and follows suit. He runs into a woman, causing her handbag to spill all over the platform, but keeps on going. And she's chasing him, not stopping, not looking back. She can hear Charlie's voice somewhere behind her. Vaguely yelling, "FBI, everybody out!" She hears the shuffle of feet and sees a blur of figures move past, but her gaze is focused on Ferelli. He's backed up against a wall now, with no place to go except towards her or the train line and she's pretty sure he won't choose the line since she hears the L train coming from behind her.

Her gun's pointed directly at him and he's looking at her like he doesn't have a care in the world and suddenly all she can think about are those two little girls and the blood in their hair. _I've got him_ she thinks. _I finally have him._

And she's about to walk towards him, about to cuff him and read him his rights when the shrill screech of the train breaks beside her. Charlie's already called in. Asked that the doors be kept shut while they apprehend Ferelli and out of the corner of her eye, she can see the curious passengers come to the window, eager to be part of something bigger, eager to have something to tell their families around the dinner table.

There's a constant hum of noise in the station, the train, the passengers inside, the echo from above, even the sound of her own breathing, heavy and laboured from running. Yet suddenly all is still and the air becomes hollowed and filled with only four syllables. "O-LIV-I-A!"

It's as if she's been dreaming and with one word, she's woken up and suddenly, she can breathe, she hear and see, just for a moment at least. It's a surreal moment in which one soundbite so profoundly affects her. Her head snaps towards her source of the sound. And in the train carriage, stands a man. His palms pressed flat against the glass, his face contorted in a strange fusion of joy and anguish. "OLIVIA!" He yells again, his eyes searching her face, as if to make sure she is real. He bangs on the glass and it begins to crack, yet no-one around him seems to care or even notice. She's never seen him before, of course, nor does she have any idea how he knows her name. All she knows is that something inside of her is cracking, cracking like that pane of glass he keeps pounding against. It takes her a second to realise that she's crying and even then, she's not sure why.

By the time she hears the shot, she's already been hit and her shoulder feels as if it's about to explode. As she falls, she sees Ferelli and the gun in his hands and the coldness in his eyes. She sees his finger squeeze the trigger again and vaguely hears Charlie shout something in the background.

The second bullet hits her heart and then there is only darkness.


	2. Chapter 2 : Pain

**A/N:** A BIG THANK YOU FOR ALL THE REVIEWS ON THE LAST CHAPTER! The love is overwhelming and wonderful!

Thanks to **Ambre** for reading, opinionating and generally inspiring :)

I'll try and update 1-2 a week, so it'll be fairly regular and hopefully you'll all enjoy the journey **:)**

* * *

><p><em>There is no coming to consciousness without pain.<em>

CARL JUNG

**Chapter Two: Pain**

"OLIVIA!" Twice his palms beat against the thick glass until cracks spread out like spider webs, rippling through the window. "Olivia! Please!" His voice is a half-broken plea, an incantation which holds her prisoner. She cannot look away, cannot escape his desperate call, his haunted eyes. The water rises up in the carriage behind him and soon he is engulfed in it. She stands, watching him slowly drown and he is beautiful, she thinks. But then the glass shatters and water, salty like the ocean comes flooding out towards her. She should run, but where to? The concept of home has become foreign. And she allows herself to be swept up, submerged and immersed. She is subaqueous and weightless and suddenly free. And he is there, those hands which were pressed up against the glass now on her waist. His fingers, warm against her skin under the cool water. His touch like a photograph taken when she was a child. A memory long forgotten. His touch like winter nights and tangled sheets. His mouth pulls into a smile and he whispers something but it forms a bubble and rushes to the surface before she can hear it. She watches it float higher and higher until it disappears. And then he's gone. And she's drowning.

"Livvy! Hey, shhh. You're alright."

Her eyelids feel heavy and she struggles to blink, but she does and frowns against the bright florescent lights. Her throat is scratchy, her mouth is dry and her entire body feels thick with pain. She turns her head slowly to see Charlie leaning forward in the chair next to her bed. His face is a tableau of relief and exhaustion.

"Hey there, kiddo."

"Charlie?" She attempts to clear her throat and he springs up to get her a glass of water. She struggles to sit up and he helps her take a sip. "Where am I?"

"Brooklyn Hospital Centre." He gently puts his hand on her shoulder. "Liv, you got hit in the shoulder and the chest. Doctor said if you hadn't been wearin' a vest it woulda been fatal."

She glances down at her left arm, which is fixed in a blue sling. It hurts like hell, along with the rest of her body. "Ferelli!" She tries to sit up straight but fails.

"Hey, take it easy," Charlie, holds her shoulder firmly. "Lincoln chased him for almost a block. Shot him too, but the sonofabitch got away."

She swallows hard. "So it was all for nothing. And now he knows we're on to him."

"We'll get him, okay?" He waits until her eyes meet his. "We'll get him," he says again, his face filled with conviction.

She nods once and he sits back down with a sigh.

They sit for a while with only the methodical beeping of the heart monitor breaking the silence.

"Liv?"

She turns her head to look at him. His brown eyes warm and in them, she finds comfort. "Who's Peter?" he asks softly.

Two syllables escape his lips and she feels like her heart's about to explode. Her pulse begin to race, she feels it, drumming at her temple. The tiny hairs on her arms stand up as if someone's just opened a window. She has no explanation for this reaction and that scares her.

"I don't know," she says honestly, despite the fact that the heart monitor has begun to play a faster tempo. "Why?"

"You said the name." Charlie's gaze flickers to the beeping machine then back to her face, "You okay?"

"Charlie, when did I say the name?"

"Before you passed out. Just before the EMTs arrived. You called out for someone named Peter."

She turns her head back to the ceiling, taking deep breaths. Olivia's been involved in enough Fringe cases over the past few years to know that she is not okay. Something is happening. She doesn't know what or why or how she's connected, but she's been through enough to know that is definitely not okay.

The monitor slowly returns to a moderate beep. "I guess I was delirious."

"Well," Charlie crosses a leg over his knee. "You've got two weeks to figure it out."

Her head snaps back to him. "Oh, c'mon, Charlie. Two weeks?"

"Doctor's orders," he says with a barely concealed smile.

"It's just my shoulder," she protests. "Besides, you know how many hours you'll have to spend at the office if I'm not there to pick up your slack?" She attempts to lighten the mood. The thought of two weeks alone at home, two weeks with no distractions, two weeks staring up at her ceiling and that crack above the bed…it's almost unbearable.

But Charlie smiles, "As it turns out, Sonia's parents are in town for the next two weeks in time for Sophy's first birthday. Now of course they could have booked into a hotel, but they insisted on being close so they're staying with us. So, if working late means I get to skip cozy dinners with the in-laws..." He shoots her a half-apologetic look. "Look, we'll give it a week, okay?"

Olivia rolls her eyes but returns his smile. "A week. Okay." She looks down at her shoulder and sighs.

"Hey," Charlie says, meeting her troubled gaze, "You're gonna be fine."

**...**

She remembers lying curled up in the arms of a lover one warm Sunday morning. He looked down at her and quoted a line from a Neruda poem she doesn't remember the name of:

_Beneath the earth_

_ beneath your skin_

_ beneath your eyes, nothing._

His voice was soothing, lulling her back to sleep. She had tilted her head up to look at him. "Where are you?" he had asked.

"I'm here," she said, stroking her fingers down his cheek. "With you."

He smiled then, but his beautiful eyes were filled with sadness.

A month later, he was transferred to the CDC division in Texas. She had loved him, loved him the way she had loved John and the few that came before him. Somehow, though it was never enough.

**...**

Olivia swallows down the rest of her whiskey in one gulp and refills her glass. She hasn't taken any of her pain medication – it tends to make her drowsy and she resists the idea of sleep. Whiskey's the only thing that takes the edge off – or at least that's what she's telling herself.

She almost jumps when her phone rings and curses herself. As a child she went through a phase when every noise, every yell would make her flinch and she hates to think that she's gone back there.

"Dunham," she says, answering the call, the standard 'hello' having long been replaced.

There's a second of crackled static before her sister's voice breaks through. "Liv, hey. I'm on my way, just stopping for a bottle of vino. So, white or red?"

Olivia brings her hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Aw, Rach, you don't have to do that. I've got-"

"Whiskey," Rachel finishes for her on a laugh. "And maybe that Vodka that was there since last Christmas. Trust me, Liv, this is better."

She smiles, "Okay, point taken. I'll see you soon then?"

"Yeah. Bye."

She puts down the phone and sighs loudly. It's not that she doesn't want to see Rachel, it's more that she doesn't want to see anyone, which she understands is a complete paradox considering her reluctance to be alone with her thoughts, but she feels unbalanced, like she's teetering on the brink of something and she's not quite sure if she's going to fall or gain her ground. It's a frustrating feeling, being on edge and not knowing why. She vaguely remembers the seconds leading up to the gunshot, but it's all become warped in dream-like confusion. She remembers being distracted by something, but all she sees when she closes her eyes is the same spectre, who has flitted through her dreams since before she can remember. As a child, she would dream of a boy, as an adult she dreams of a man. She couldn't describe him if she wanted to. He's all shadows and shade, disappearing with the sunlight and leaving her with no more than empty desire. It's a void she wonders if everyone carries, an unfulfilled part inside which seems to scream _"There is more."_

She takes another sip of whiskey and closes her eyes. Self-reflection is never good on an empty stomach. Turning her attention back to the files spread out before her, Olivia picks up Lincoln Lee's report of the Ferelli incident. He's a good agent, she thinks, flipping through his notes. Not as self-assured as his alternate, but he has a quiet confidence that she rather likes. He'd be a good addition to the team. She stops suddenly, her eye catching one particular sentence. "…when, after shooting Ferelli in the leg, I noticed that his blood was a silver metallic colour. Based on my description of the blood, chem-division speculates that it may be due to certain narcotics taken by Ferelli." She grabs her pen and scribbles _silver blood_ on her notepad. It sparks something though she has no idea what at this point. She taps her pen against the table in frustration, staring at those two words. They mean something, she's sure of it. It's another few minutes of aimless taping and staring before she's jolted by an insistent knocking on the door.

Olivia smiles despite herself. Rachel's the only person she can think of who is possibly more impatient than she is. She hurries to open unlatch and open the door.

Except it's not Rachel at the door.

The man standing on the other side is completely drenched, his hair plastered to his forehead, his clothes soaked through. He's trembling and breathing hard and staring at her as if he's never seen anything more incredible. "Olivia, oh god."

In two steps, she's in his arms.

For a second, she cannot breath, and it's like she's drowning all over again. Except this is real, she's pretty sure that this is real. His arms around her are solid and tight. He's almost crushing her, squeezing her injured arm against her body so that pain rips through her, but she can barely feel it. All she feels is the icy-wet from his clothing soaking through her own, right to her very skin. Her instincts are clashing as part of her wants to push this stranger away, reclaim her personal space. She slips a hand between their bodies in an attempt to forcefully shove him off her, but something else, something deeper and more elemental takes over and she finds herself fisting his soaked shirt in her fingers and pulling him even closer. It doesn't make sense, but neither does the fact there's this man in her living room, whispering her name like he's known her his entire life.

She tries to speak, but she's in an inexplicable state of paralysis. Like this is happening in slow-motion and she's watching it all from the outside. He smells of rain and smoke, she thinks absently.

His face is buried in her hair and she shivers as his nose brushes her neck, his skin is like ice. "I knew I'd find you." he says in a voice she heard in a dream. He brushes his stubbled cheek against hers and tangles his fingers in her hair, holding on to her as if she is the only solid thing in a vaporous world. "Walter was right all along, when I saw you on the subway I knew. As long as we're in the same place at the-"

"Liv?"

Olivia's eyes fly open as if she's been awoken from a spell of some kind. Rachel is standing in the doorway, her arms hugging a paper bag presumably filled with groceries, her face knotted with concern.

"Liv, why's your door open?"

Olivia stares at her sister for a second, feeling completely disoriented. What the hell just happened?

"I, um…" she clears her throat. "I don't know."

Rachel drops the bag on the ground and walks towards her. "Olivia, god, your shirt is completely wet." Rachel waits until their gazes meet. "Are you okay?"

Olivia slowly shakes her head and confesses softly, "No, I don't think I am."

* * *

><p>.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3 : Optical Delusion

**A/N:** Once again, THANK YOU ALL FOR THE FANTASTIC REVIEWS! REVIEWS=LOVE which is always wonderful :) I'm glad you guys are enjoying the story thus far. Please feel free to comment or criticise - any input is welcome. :)

* * *

><p><em>A human being is a part of a whole, called by us 'universe', a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest... a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness.<em>

- Albert Einstein

**Chapter Three: Optical Delusion**

She gets out of the shower, only because the water has finally turned cold, only because she can't bear to stand awkwardly against the wall as she avoids getting her bandaged shoulder wet. If she could she'd have stayed in there all night she would have. But she gets out, her head throbbing with a dull pain that suggests she should be taking her medication. She reaches for a towel, but her reflection in the full-length bathroom mirror catches her attention. She stares at herself, wet, naked, trembling despite the stream circulating around the room. Idly, she traces the thin scar on her abdomen. A constant reminder of one of her biggest failures. Her wet hair hangs heavily down her back and she can still feel his fingers against her skin, the rough texture of his cheek bristling against hers. She wonders what the difference is between dream and memory.

By the time she gets to the kitchen, the clattering of pots has ceased and Rachel's standing in front of the oven with a smile. "Hey. You feeling any better?"

"Yeah," Olivia lies well, she always has. "I guess I just needed to clear my head, you know? The pain-killers." She rolls her eyes as if to emphasise their effects.

Rachel lets out a relived laugh. "Yeah, well I'd be careful about leaving your front door open if I were you. Especially with that creepy neighbour down the hall." She hands Olivia a glass of Merlot.

"Creepy neighbour?" Olivia raises an eyebrow, "You mean Mrs Blake and her seven cats? Nah, she's harmless."

"Uh, no I meant the pale guy in a fifties hat with no eyebrows." Rachel turns around and opens the oven, "Anyway, forget about all of that, let's eat."

Olivia takes a step into the kitchen, the kitchen that smells surprisingly good. "Wait, you cooked?"

Rachel looks amused. "Well if you look more surprised I'm going to be offended." She walks to the trash can and fishes out a 'heat 'n eat' box of lasagne. "I warmed. But I have to say, my heating skills are improving."

"Very impressive," Olivia says, taking a sip of her wine.

"So," Rachel takes out two plates and lays them on the table. "You gonna tell me why you were so freaked out when I arrived?"

Olivia's mouth pulls into a tight smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I told you, it's the medication. I guess I just sort of zoned out."

Rachel cocks her head to one side and appraises her sister for a second. "Liv, you remember when we were little and Mom took us to the zoo in Jacksonville? And you got lost in the big cats section?"

Olivia nods into her glass.

"When we found you, Mom asked if you were scared and you said no, except you had the same look on your face that you did when I came through that door. And you had nightmares for weeks after that, but you never said anything, not once."

She swirls the wine around in her glass, seemingly transfixed by the deep red vortex before eventually making eye-contact with Rachel. "I've been having these…hallucinations," she says quietly.

"Hallucinations?"

"Yes. I mean, I know it's crazy. I just -"

Rachel reaches out to take her hand. "Look, Liv. I don't know much about what goes on at that job of yours, but from what I read in the papers, there's a lot of weird stuff happening out there and you're the one dealing with it, so maybe…you know, maybe you need a break. I mean, when last have you been on a date?"

Olivia almost laughs. "A date?"

"Yeah," Rachel looks at her with a teasing smile. "You know, you wear a dress, go to a restaurant, have a conversation with another human being. I know that after John you were hesitant to-what?" she stops in mid-sentence when Olivia's face suddenly lights up.

"I know what to do," she says, scraping her chair against the floor in her hurry to get up.

"Who are you calling?" Rachel asks as she grabs her phone off the coffee table and punches in numbers.

"Hi, it's Olivia. Olivia Dunham," she says, ignoring Rachel's confused gestures. "I'm sorry, I know it's late but-" she waits a beat and nods. "I really need to speak to him."

...

The house in Cambridge is exactly like she remembers it. She hasn't been here for a while. Not since before The Bridge and the guilt weighs on her. She knocks on the door twice before it's opened by an elegant woman in her early sixties. She smiles when she sees Olivia and pulls her into an embrace before the younger woman can even mutter "hello."

"Olivia," she says in an accent discernibly British. "It's wonderful to see you."

"You too," Olivia replies, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious now that she's here.

"You know, he won't stop talking about you ever since that call. He even baked a pie."

"I, um," she nervously wrings her hands, "I should have come by. More often. I kept wanting to, it's just, with work…" she trails off, the excuse sounding lame even to her.

"Nonsense," she gives her a warm smile and touches her cheek softly. "You have your job. We know that keeps you busy and we were so proud when we heard about your promotion."

"Thank you, Elizabeth." Olivia finds herself leaning in towards the older woman's soft, maternal touch.

"Now what on earth happened to your arm?" Elizabeth gestures towards the sling around Olivia's neck.

"OLIVIA!" Both women turn to see Walter Bishop standing in the hallway, wearing a bright orange dashiki and a pair of wellington boots.

"Walter." Olivia's mouth pulls into an uncontrollable grin as she walks towards him before being engulfed in a hug.

"Walter, love what are you wearing?" Elizabeth's voice comes from behind them.

Walter pulls away from Olivia and points towards the backyard. "Camouflage, my dear, camouflage. You see, outside I've discovered a nest of ash-throated flycatchers. Remarkably rare birds for this time of year and I postulated that-"

"Walter," Elizabeth holds up her hand. "I think perhaps I'll leave you and Olivia to talk, hmm?" She shoots Olivia a knowing smile, before heading towards the kitchen.

Walter takes Olivia's hand in his and smiles, until his eyes crinkle. "I'm glad you're here, my dear. You must have some pie, yes?"

She shakes her head. "Oh, no, I'm fine thanks."

"It's very good pie. Cherry-bubble-gum." He leans in as if to tell her a secret. "My own creation," says Walter with a wink.

Olivia looks up at him. It's been less than a year since she's last seen him, but the pressure and strain of their last project has left its mark. His wrinkles are deeper, his hair whiter and there's a fragility in him that she never seemed to notice before.

They sit down on the large, comfortable couch and Olivia doesn't mention the fact that Walter isn't wearing anything underneath his dashiki; she merely positions herself so as to be safe from any unwanted images. "How's the teaching going?"

"Hmm-mm, very well." Walter nods. "We're currently covering transgenetic manipulation. I showed them some stills from the Delgmann case. Some of them lost their breakfast." He giggles to himself. "It was rather delightful to see them so engaged."

"That's great," Olivia smiles somewhat half-heartedly and brings her hands up to her face for a moment as she attempts to construct her next sentence. "Walter, I um…"

Walter's face grows darker. "Olivia, are you alright? Your colouring suggests you're under some sort of stress." She watches as fear creeps into his eyes and his entire body goes rigid, "Dear god, it's not the universes again is it? I've been measuring the frequency of the ionosphere and nothing seems to suggest that-"

"No," she briefly lays her hand on his, "No, it's not that."

"Well what then?" he asks in voice like a curious child and Olivia forgets that this is the man who almost destroyed two universes, the man who experimented on her and other little children because of his hubris. All she sees is Walter, the man who, for the better part of four years has acted as her surrogate father, whether she wanted it or not. She remembers his face when she first walked into St. Claire's, the face of a broken, dejected man, brought to life again by the sight of his estranged wife and this young, fresh wide-eyed FBI agent.

He looks at her now, his eyes bright with interest and she exhales a trembling breath. "After you first put me in the tank," she begins, "after John and I shared consciousness I began to see him and you said-"

"I said that his memories were trapped in your head, which was why you could communicate with him on some level. It's all very interesting. You see, the brain acts as a receptor for-"

"Walter?" She cuts him off softly but firmly.

"Yes, sorry," he looks sheepish. "Continue."

"Okay, so," she speaks with her hands, trying to find the best way to approach this. "I've been seeing someone. Hallucinations."

"Of Agent Scott?" Walter shuffles closer to her, clearly excited.

"No. Not Scott. I've never seen this man before, I mean, not in real life."

Walter stands up abruptly and begins to pace, "So, you've had no actual contact with this person?"

Olivia shakes her head.

"Nor have you communicated prior to the hallucinations?"

"No, I-" She shrugs her shoulders, "I may have dreamt about him."

"How frequently?"

"Since I was a child." Olivia's follows Walter's incessant pacing. "Walter what does this mean?"

"I haven't the foggiest. Perhaps he is a projection of your subconscious and not a man at all."

"He hugged me." She says it softly as if she is ashamed.

Walter stops abruptly and turns to face her. "You mean to say this man, this hallucination has taken corporeal form? Oh! Well!" He reaches into his pocket and retrieves a stick of gum that he promptly pops into his mouth. "And this man, has he spoken to you?"

"He knew my name," she clears her throat. "He said, 'Walter was right all along.'"

Walter smiles, "Hmm, well I like this fellow."

"Walter," Olivia's voice is softer now, almost pleading, "I need this to stop. Do you know to make that happen? Maybe if you put me in the tank? With John-"

"With John Scott you had a personal connection. You shared memories. Once those memories were expelled, he disappeared. This is different. You have no direct ties to this phantom. I suspect that he may be a product of your inner consciousness, made corporeal, perhaps something that has lain dormant since childhood."

"So it's all in my head?" She runs her fingers through her hair, frustrated at the lack of answers. "You're saying this is something I made up?"

"Olivia, you must remember. Your...hmm…" he trails off squinting into nothingness, trying to articulate his thoughts. He pulls something bright and metallic from his pocket and holds it between his fingers, "…your unique abilities make you exceptional. Your perception is different to that of the ordinary person. Someone else may have experienced this as a series of lucid dreams, yet to you, it is more vivid. While everyone else watches their lives in black and white, yours is in 3-D." He smiles at her. "Elizabeth and I went to see the loveliest film in 3-D last week. Can you believe that they now make jumbo buckets of popcorn?"

She rubs a hand under her nose and sighs. "So what do I do if he shows up again?" He sits down next to her, so close that she can smell the cinnamint gum on his breath.

"Talk to him."

"Walter, I'm serious."

"So am I, my dear. If this is a projection of your subconscious, somehow manifested into corporeal form, speak to it, ask him why he's haunting you. We all have our demons, Olivia," he says idly flipping an old silver half-dollar coin across his fingers, a habit he's had for as long as Olivia's known him. "Perhaps he's one of yours."

...

By the time Olivia reaches her apartment she's frustrated and tired. She'd expected…more. Answers, a solution, _something_. Yet Walter's best suggestion was to sit down and have coffee with the product of her insane mind. She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. Maybe everyone's right; maybe she is overworked and overtired. Maybe all of this is just her brain's way of telling her she's overdoing it. Yet even as she tries to rationalise it, she knows it's more, it's deeper than a simple stress related _episode_.

She throws her keys onto the counter with more force than is necessary and unhooks her arm from its sling. It hurts like hell, but she hates the feeling of being confined and restricted. Tentatively, she rolls her shoulder in its socket and winces when a sting runs down her body. Maybe those painkillers are a good idea after all, she thinks. She's on her way to the bathroom when she hears it. First the distinctive sound of running water and then a crash coming from the direction of her destination. Slowly, Olivia retreats to the kitchen and retrieves her back-up gun from the drawer. She cocks it as silently as she can with an injured arm and slinks against the wall towards the bathroom. She stops at the door-frame and listens for sounds of movement and sure enough after a few seconds, she hears shuffling which sounds almost clumsy. She counts to three under her breath then turns the corner and aims her gun directly at the very wet, very naked, very unconscious man on her bathroom floor.

* * *

><p>.<p> 


	4. Chapter 4 : Refrain

A/N: Firstly, a stupendous THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed/read/enjoyed the last chapter. I read every single review and it means so much that you take the time to share your thoughts with me. Knowing that you guys are enjoying the story makes the writing process and 2am caffeine highs so worthwhile. So THANK YOU

Secondly, a huge thanks to Ambre for her constant support/flailing/motivation during this chapter (and all chapters really). Any references to Peter's anatomy are dedicated to you, bb.

* * *

><p>Who could refrain that had a heart to love and in that heart courage to make love known?<p>

– William Shakespeare

**Chapter 4 - Refrain**

She stands there for the longest time, just staring at him, her gun still aimed directly at his head despite the fact that he's very clearly unconscious. He lays on his side, curled up in an almost-fetal position, his breath coming out slow and steady. Her heart pounds so loudly that for a moment she wonders if it's enough to wake him. But he doesn't stir and eventually, she uses her foot to nudge him onto his back. She realises that it's a bad idea the second his head rolls towards her and his arm sprawls out against her foot. It isn't his arm she's focused on though, and despite the insanity of the situation, Olivia finds her breath hitched in her throat as she stares down at this undeniably attractive stranger on her bathroom floor. Her eyes move from the dark stubble on his chin, down to the strong column of his softly vibrating thorax. His chest is broad and smooth and she finds her gaze travelling lower, until she swallows loudly and wonders if he really is a projection of her imagination what the Freudian implications of his particularly _impressive _anatomy would suggest about her own state of mind. Softly, she crouches down beside him and lays her gun on the cold tiles. Up close, she can hear the gentle intake of his breath. She tentatively reaches out, her hand almost trembling as she moves in to lay a fingertip upon his cheek. He's warm, is the first thing she thinks. Warm and undeniably _real_. His eyelashes flutter lightly against his cheeks and for a second her hand hovers above her gun, but then he stills and mumbles something that sounds very much like her name. She brushes the wet curls off his forehead, an action that feels uncannily familiar, as if she were suddenly caught in a revolving door of _déjà vu._

_..._

By the time she wakes the light has changed from the purple hue it was when she first sat down to a deep blue that covers the room. Though it isn't the light that that she first notices but the pair of stormy eyes fixed intently on her face. Her first instinct is to jump up, but for some reason, she doesn't and stays seated in the wicker chair while he sits at the edge of her bed, still wrapped in the blanket she'd thrown over him.

His gaze locks onto hers and for a second, there's so much energy arching between them, she wonders if the lights are suddenly going to flicker or something.

"You're real, aren't you?" she asks finally, her voice almost echoing in the silence of the room.

The corners of his mouth twitch slightly. "I was about to ask you the same thing," he says, not once taking those eyes off her.

"Okay," she nods tersely, and leans forward, resting her fingertips against her chin. Despite her rapidly beating heart, despite the fact that her body is literally gravitating towards him, she tries to remain cool and objective. "So who are you and why are you here?"

She notes the briefest flicker of hurt cross his features but then it's replaced with an almost careless smile that does nothing to calm her fluttering nerves. "It's funny; I was less naked when we had this conversation in my head."

Her gaze darts to his hands clutching the blanket at his chest. "You were passed out," she begins awkwardly. "I uh, I dragged you in here."

"Yeah," he rubs the back of his neck somewhat sheepishly. "Sorry about that."

She gets up suddenly and pads across the room towards her wardrobe. Without a word, she rummages through one of her bottom drawers pulls out a pair of grey track pants and a t-shirt. "These should fit," she says, tossing the clothing at him. "And then I want answers."

He barely gets out a, 'thank you' before she walks out, shutting the bedroom door behind her.

...

She presses the heels of her palms against her eyes, successfully blocking out light, but failing to block out thought. Her mind is whirring and all she wants is for it to stop, for all of it to stop and make sense. Her entire life has been about making sense of things and this is the one time, she can't even begin to understand what is happening. Despite what Walter has said, she's almost certain that the man in her bedroom is real, she hopes to god he is, because if he isn't then painkillers aren't the only drugs she's going to be prescribed. And yet, despite the uncertainty of it all, the one thing she's almost sure of is that she can trust him, which makes absolutely no sense and makes her question everything about the entire situation itself. But there's something about the way he looks at her, there's something almost…_vulnerable_ in those blue eyes that makes her want to trust him.

"You okay?" His voice reaches her like an arrow, affecting her in some profound way that she's given up trying to articulate.

She removes her hands from her eyes, and for a millisecond little lights dance in front of her face before his outline becomes clear. He's standing on the other side of the small table, barefoot and taller than she had anticipated. The pants that she had given him fit snugly, some may have said a little too snugly, but she finds herself distracted by his face and barely notices the clothing. Instinctively, she reaches for the counter behind her, so as to physically stop herself from taking any steps towards him. No-one has ever looked at her the way he's looking at her: hungrily, longingly. He takes one step forward and holds on to the back of a chair, gripping it until white-knuckled, as if he too is physically restraining himself from approaching her.

"You don't know me, do you?" His voice is laced with a hint of desperation that had been in check earlier.

"Should I?"

He smiles then, but it's an ironic twist of his lips rather than one of amusement. "Honestly, I don't know. I don't even know if this world is anything like what mine used to be. I don't know how any of this," he gestures to the space between them, "is possible." He takes a breath, "But I do know that you're _my_ Olivia."

She crosses her arms across her chest, a reflexive defence mechanism. "_Your _Olivia," she repeats with a raised brow. "What does that mean?"

"It means-" He lets out a frustrated sigh, "It means that I know you have a sister named Rachel, and niece, Ella. I know you attended Northwestern and you spent your childhood in Jacksonville. You," he motioned to the cupboard behind her, "There's always a bottle of whiskey in there. You prefer scotch, but bourbon will do." He crosses his arms over his chest, unconsciously mimicking her.

Olivia is obviously shaken, but she forces herself to maintain composure. "Okay," she says," her tone clipped, "So you've read a file on me, maybe gone through my cupboards before I got home, that still doesn't-"

"You have birthmark on your left hip." He looks her dead in the eye, his face impassive, almost challenging. "It's sort of shaped like a star. You're not ticklish anywhere except that spot behind your ear, all it takes is a whisper against it and you're helpless. Sometimes," his façade cracks slightly as a frown line appears between his brows. "Sometimes you have nightmares, about when you were little, still living with your step-father. You used to…you'd wake up trembling and I would," he clears his throat as his voice threatens to break, "I'd hold you until you stopped." He gives a small, sad smile. "That's not in any file."

Olivia can feel her entire body responding. It's as if she's been doused with icy water. She's fighting to keep her breathing steady. "What are you-" she exhales and runs her fingers through her hair, "How do you know all of that?"

"Because for four years I worked with you. You and Walter and Astrid. And for some of that time," he takes a small step forward, making her wish that she wasn't trapped between the table and the counter. "For some of that time we were together."

She lets out a half-laugh, her face registering disbelief. Not that she's particularly amused by any of this, but somehow this reaction seems better than the one she's currently fighting, which is to close that gap between them and touch him. "I'm sorry," she flicks her hand in the air, "It's just that, you'd think that I'd remember you."

"Yeah I thought so too," he says flatly. "Look," he takes another step towards her and now the space between them is barely there. "I thought I'd never see you again. I didn't know if you existed. Christ, I didn't even know if _I_ existed. The place where I'm from it's...there's just nothing." His voice takes on a slightly desperate tone, "So when I saw you on the subway, I thought that something had changed, since the creation of the bridge, that maybe-"

"How do you know about that?" Olivia asks in a breathless tone.

"Because I'm the reason it exists," he says. "And after it was created, everything changed." His eyes map her face, silently pleading with her. "Olivia, please." She swallows when he leans in slightly. "You _have_ to believe me."

She _feels_ herself deflate and move in towards him as if she's hypnotized by the longing in that swirling aquarium of his irises. The ringing that suddenly fills the room literally causes her to jerk away and hit her back against the counter. For a second, she's disoriented, then realises her phone is vibrating on the table behind him.

"Sorry," she manages to mumble, before moving past him. "Dunham," she says, just before he rubs his hand over his face and grumbles something like, "Some things never change."

"Liv," Charlie's voice is rough on the other end of the line, as if he's just awoken from sleep. She glances at the clock. 12:16pm. She had no idea it was this late. "We got a lead on Ferelli, you up for it?"

Completely forgetting the man in her kitchen, Olivia immediately goes into agent-mode and reaches for the half-open briefcase leaning against one of the chairs. "Okay, what have we got?" she says, pulling files out and laying them on the table.

"Lucy Gates, found dead in her apartment, just two blocks from DeKalb station. Street cameras caught Ferelli entering her building just hours before she was murdered."

She sucks in a breath when she feels his body come up behind her as he leans over her shoulder, surveying the notes on the table. "CSU?" she asks, purposefully ignoring him.

"Found Ferelli's fingerprints and traces of mercury around the crime scene," she pulls out her notepad and flips to where she had written _sliver-blood_. "And here's where things get weird," Charlie continues as Olivia scowls at the man currently scanning her case-notes with intense interest. "Lucy Gates was spotted in Pennsylvania four hours ago. Lincoln just checked and her body's still in the Brooklyn Country Hospital Morgue."

"And still no trace of Ferelli?" She sighs when he grabs her notepad and mouths 'pen'. Rolling her eyes, she digs a pen out of her bag and thrusts it into his left hand.

"No Ferelli."

She turns when he holds the notepad up and points to what he has written, looking at her with a serious expression. She shoots him a questioning look, but he taps the page insistently.

"Charlie," she says, reading off the page, "were there any puncture wounds in Lucy Gates' mouth?"

"Yeah three in her palate," Charlie clears his throat on the other end of the line. "How'd you know that, Liv?"

"I'm not sure yet," she answers, her eyes now fixed on the face in front of her. "Listen, I'll meet you at HQ in 20 minutes, okay?"

"Olivia, you're not cleared for duty. C'mon. I only called 'cause I knew you'd want to be in the loop."

"See you in twenty, Charlie," she says, before hanging up on him. She tosses her phone down and crosses her arms over her chest. "Tell me everything you know."

He seems to think for a moment then sighs, "Okay look, I don't know how it works in this world. But the man you're looking for, isn't a man anymore. He _is_ Lucy Gates."

"What?"

"He's a shape-shifter. They were created by, well initially by William Bell initially but-"

"Wait," she holds her hand up, "William Bell? As in Massive Dynamic Bell? The most powerful man in America?"

"Bell's still alive?" His frown-line deepens.

"Of course. He funded half of the Bridge project."

He shakes his head, "Because if he never crossed over, he never died saving us. And he and Walter-"

"Were lab partners once upon a time," she finishes for him, then stops, perplexed, her fingertips hovering over her lips as she stares at him. "I don't understand. How do you know all of this? Who _are_ you?"

He looks down at his bare feet for a second before meeting her conflicted gaze. "I'm Peter," he says simply. "But you already knew that."

And she finds her eyes welling up for no apparent reason. "Yes." she swallows down something of a sob building in her throat. "I think so."

Her small kitchen is engulfed in silence until she nods her head in quiet resolution and looks down, "I need to meet Charlie. We uh," she looks up at him, "We can talk when I get back?"

"Yeah," he says with a slight smile. He watches her clip on her gun, tie back her hair and stuff her cell phone in her pocket before putting on her heavy coat. She winces as she puts her left arm through, but doesn't make a sound. At no point does she look at him and it's only when her hand is on the doorknob that he calls to out to her. "Olivia!" When she turns around, he's standing in exactly the same spot as he was before, and staring at her intently. "If you run into Lucy Gates, shoot her in the head."

She nods once, then walks out without looking back.

* * *

><p>.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5 : Truth

**_A/N: _**Hi guys! So, firstly I come bearing apologies for the long wait between this chapter and the last. There was a near-apocalypse, a mountain of tissues and a dead bunny-rabbit somewhere to blame. hopefully, you'll never have to wait this long for an update. I also want to say THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR AWESOME-SAUCE REVIEWS. Cause really, they're like the tastiest thing since Nutella.

So, enjoy this chapter and the next one should be up within the week :)

* * *

><p><em>The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple.<em>

Oscar Wilde

**Chapter 5 - Truth**

The first thing she runs into is Charlie's scowl. "Livvy, I thought we covered this. You're off field duty."

She holds up her hands in mock-surrender. "I'm just here for the briefing, I swear. I want to pursue a lead and since you're heading up this investigation in my absence, I wanted to officially request permission to follow it."

Charlie takes her elbow and leads her into her own office. "What lead?" he asks once they're inside.

"William Bell," she states simply.

"What the hell does the CEO of Massive Dynamic have to do with this?"

"I'm not sure yet, exactly." She looks at him with a sheepish expression, "I have a…source."

"A source?"

She presses her lips together tightly and nods while Charlie stares at her expectantly.

"And does this source have a name?"

"Y-yes" she begins hesitantly, "although he prefers to remain anonymous."

"He does huh?" He pinches the bridge of his nose, "Okay, I'm gonna need another cup of coffee."

"Look, Charlie," Olivia's tone softens. "I need you to trust me. I think I may have something with this."

And, despite the vagueness of it all, Charlie does trust her, implicitly so. If there's one thing he's learnt it's that Olivia Dunham's instincts are very seldom wrong.

So he sighs and says, "Okay, but you're writing a full case report on this."

Her mouth quirks to the right, "Sure thing, boss."

She sits among the rest of the agents while Charlie briefs them. He's sending Lincoln and Astrid to Philadelphia to find Lucy Gates while he and the rest scout for Ferelli. She wants to tell him about what Peter said, but she's not sure if she even understands half of it and explaining her source would be a whole other matter. So she keeps her peace during the briefing, and nods gratefully to Charlie once he dismisses them, her eyes hold his gaze for a minute, silently thanking him, and his mouth flicks into a tiny smile.

...

It's nearly 2am when she leaves Boston on route to New York. The drive is long, but gives her time to think. She replays the last few hours through her head like an old movie reel - from the moment she stepped into her apartment to the moment she stepped out of it. Everything in between seems like one surreal dream, yet she knows it happened. She wouldn't be driving the four hours to New York City if it didn't. She still has no idea what she's actually going to say to William Bell once she reaches him. All she knows is that Peter told her that Bell was the key to all of this and for some unfathomable reason, she trusts Peter. And that's the thing that scares her, not the fact that mere hours ago she was convinced he existed solely in her mind. She's been around Walter Bishop long enough to know that the world's a crazy place and being a sceptic just makes everything a lot more work. She trusts her instincts – there were times when they were all she's had. And yet the fact that they're so urgently drawing her towards this man, who is, for all intents and purposes an absolute stranger, disturbs her somewhat. She drives into the dawn. The sky turns gold and she sighs. There's something about sunrise…

Massive Dynamic is huge. The centre piece on a game-board on New York. She's been here before and dealt with William Bell's assistant and rumoured lover, Nina Sharp, not that Olivia pays much heed to the rumours. This morning, Nina offers at Olivia a cat-like smirk. "Agent Dunham, always a pleasure. What business brings you all the way to New York?"

Olivia smiles tightly and holds Nina's gaze. "I'm here to see William Bell."

"Oh," the older woman's eyebrows shoot-up. "Well, that might be-"

Nina's hand hovers over her phone, but she makes no effort to pick it up. "Dr Bell is a very busy man, as I'm sure you're aware, Agent Dunham. Perhaps if you arrange an appointment."

"Actually, I was hoping to speak with him now."

Nina's smile withers. "Of course." Does eventually pick up her phone and pushes a bright red button on the lower right corner. "William," she says after a few seconds. "Agent Dunham's here to see you." Her gaze flickers up to Olivia. "Olivia Dunham, yes."

Olivia stands with her hands behind her back as she waits for Nina to finish. With a raised brow, Nina lowers the receiver and directs her gaze at the agent. "You may proceed to the elevator, Agent Dunham. Dr Bell will meet you in his office. Floor 23."

Olivia nods her head once. Then promptly leaves the clinically white office.

She's known Nina sharp for as long as she's worked under the Fringe division and she's never felt entirely comfortable in the older woman's presence. Admittedly, they interacted primarily through Broyles and when they did talk it was about Massive Dynamic's involvement in whatever case she was working on, which didn't necessarily lead to the friendliest of feelings. William Bell remained the enigma, pretty much untouchable except when forced to come out of hiding during the Bridge Project. It was revealed that he and Walter had started the war by crossing over and thus causing the first of the tears in the fabric of the universes. Bell put all his resources behind the project, but remained somewhat distant, choosing to send representatives to act on his behalf. Olivia remembers a _Time_ article once referring to him as 'The Man Behind the Curtain', a title which she thinks particularly apt. She knows that he was involved in the Cortexiphan trials as well. She knows that he headed up the Ohio trials while Walter focused on those in Jacksonville. She knows that he knows more about her that he's willing to admit. But quite honestly, she wants as little to do with the man as possible. His over-familiarity makes her uncomfortable. He's not Walter and it's difficult to forgive a sane man for his crimes.

She's surprised when Bell himself greets her at his door. "Olivia," he says in that deep cadence. "How lovely to see you again."

She offers him a nod. "Dr Bell."

"Please," he says, holding his hand out as gesture for her to enter his office, "Call me William."

"Dr Bell," she says pointedly, "I'm here because I have reason to believe that you might have some information regarding a case."

Bell circles her and makes his way to the small table beside his desk. "Can I offer you some water? Tea perhaps?"

Olivia frowns, wondering if he's being deliberately evasive. "No, thank you. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"You know," Bell says, sinking down into his chair opposite her, "I was wondering why it's taken you so long to come and see me."

She's taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"Well, after the conclusion of the bridge, I assumed you'd have questions. Walter certainly couldn't answer all of them."

Olivia frowns. She wants to get this interrogation underway, not discuss riddles. "Dr Bell, what do you know about shape-shifters?"

The change in Bell's face is subtle but perceptible and for the first time since she walked into Massive Dynamic, Olivia wonders if she's made a mistake.

"Agent Dunham, I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to."

So it's _Agent Dunham_ now, she thinks and feels confident that she's onto something. "Dr Bell, for the past few months, we've been tracking a murder suspect named Eryan Ferelli. We have reason to believe that he's a shape-shifter." She looks him straight in the eye and hopes that he can't tell that she has no idea what she's talking about. All she knows is that Peter mentioned something about Bell creating the shape-shifters. God, she doesn't even know what exactly a shape-shifter is. All she knows that if she can get Bell to think that she does, she might be able to get him to talk.

"How much do you know?" Bell asks, his eye brow raised, he stares at her intensely.

"Enough." Olivia says tersely. "What _I_ want to know, is how much you know."

He sighs and stands up, his long body makes its way around the desk and he pours a finger of bourbon into a tumbler. "Are you sure I can't offer you a drink?"

She shakes her head.

William Bell brings the glass to his lips and closes his eyes as he savours the liquid. "I created the shape-shifters as…insurance," he says finally settling on the last word.

"Insurance?"

"When Walter and I first crossed over," he began, "we had no idea the kind of devastating consequences it would render. We were scientists, explorers," he says this with an almost ironic smile. "So when we discovered that we had unwittingly caused the destruction of their universe we knew it was only a matter of time before they would want retribution."

"The ZFT," Olivia murmurs.

"Correct. It took them a while to discover the source of the degradation. At first, they had no idea that we'd been coming and going through the fabric of our universes. They had no idea our universe existed. By the time Walternate's scientists figured it out, their universe was substantially worse off than ours. I knew that if they attempted to retaliate, we would need to be prepared."

"_Many warriors of the inevitable confrontation are among us now - but before they can be considered soldiers, they must be regarded as recruits._" Olivia quotes the passage from the ZFT manuscript from memory. She'd read it cover to cover during the Jones incident and again during the Bridge Project. "You were preparing."

"After Walter was sent away," Bell takes another sip of his whiskey. "I knew the responsibility lay on me. And so, I created what I envisioned to be an army of fighters should it ever come to that."

"An army of shape-shifters," Olivia deduces.

"They never went beyond the experimental phase." He digs a key out of his jacket pocket and inserts it into a drawer below his desk. "I postulated that by creating an organic-synthetic hybrid that could quite literally take on the form of any human being I would be able to use them as spies and possibly assassins in the event of a war with the other side." He pulls out a file and tosses it lightly on the glass table in front of her. "The specific details are in there." He gives her a curious glance. "Not even Walter knew about my work with the shifters. I'm curious to know who your source is, Agent Dunham."

Olivia looks at him sharply, "You say it never went beyond the experimental phase, yet we've got one of your…things out there right now, killing innocent people. How is that possible?"

Bell sighs. "When I heard about The Bridge, I was wary. After all these years, I suppose I wanted to make sure that if it ever came down to it, we'd have the necessary resources. I admit, I had hoped that you, Olivia would still have control over your…abilities. That perhaps it would be you, out of all the Cortexiphan children that could be our greatest weapon."

She swallows and breaks eye-contact. He's referring to the Brayson Place Hotel. Her breath catches in her throat but she wills herself to look back at him.

"I'm grateful it didn't come down to that," he continues.

"Why is there a shape-shifter out there?" she asks bluntly.

"Two escaped." Bell swallows down the last of his drink and lowered his glass. "Just before the closing of The Bridge we decided to destroy them. A few of the earlier models, the more developed models…rebelled. Two escaped," he says again. "We put one down, but the other-"

"-is still out there." Her voice is tight. She wrings her hands and lets out a breath. "And it's killing."

"It wants to survive. It's switching bodies."

"Which means that Eryan Ferelli-"

"Was most probably replaced by the shape-shifter."

"And now it's Lucy Gates." Olivia says softly. She stands up abruptly, "Dr Bell, you can expect to hear from us very soon."

"Olivia," Bell says as she walks towards the door, "I never meant to hurt anyone."

"And yet you keep doing so," she mutters softly before exiting.

She's barely at the elevator before she has her phone to her ear. "Charlie, it's me. Any word on Gates?"

"Astrid just sent me a link to the security tapes from 30th Street Station. Gates took the Acela Express. So far, we can't tell if she's gotten off yet."

"Charlie, she's dangerous," Olivia says in a low voice. "We're not looking for Ferelli anymore, our suspect is Gates."

"Livvy? What are you talking about?"

"I can't explain everything now. You have to trust me."

She hears Charlie's sigh on the other end. "Lincoln's at Penn Station. If she's as dangerous as you say she is, then we can't wait around."

"What are you going to do?" The elevator pings for her to enter and she holds her finger against the 'open door' button.

"See if we can smoke her out."

She looks at her watch. "Tell Lincoln I'll see him in twenty."

...

Olivia drums her fingers against the steering wheel as she drives. She briefly considers turning on the siren to get through the early morning traffic, but she doesn't want to alert the shifter that they're on to it. She's already made sure that Charlie's called-off the back-up teams. Any attention, any chance that this thing could escape and just shift into someone else, just take over another life is intolerable. She glances at the clock. Seven minutes before the train arrives at the station. She's got seven minutes to get inside and finish this. Tires squeal as she stops outside of Penn station. Olivia parks at a rough angle, ignoring the angry calls from the backed up traffic behind her and sprints through the doors and down the steps.

She meets Lincoln at Track 18. She wonders if she imagines the way his face just lit up at she approaches. "Agent Lee," she says, slightly out of breath.

"Agent Dunham," he counters and offers her a slight smile.

"Where are we at?" She surveys the platform. There are a dozen or so people milling about, in a minute, there'll be hundreds.

"Security's been put on alert. We've got guys at every entrance. If she's on that train, we'll get her."

She's not sure if he's optimistic or resolute, but she nods. "I'll take the 5th Avenue."

He jingles his walkie at her. "I'll be here."

She's barely at the exit when she hears Lincoln's voice over the walkie. "Olivia, we've spotted her at the 7th Avenue Exit." Olivia takes off without a thought, the weight of her gun firmly at her side. She's panting when she gets to the exit and sees Lincoln running ahead of her, obviously chasing something.

_Damnit!_ She thinks. If they lose Gates now, she'll slip into another body and that would be it. Olivia can't let that happen. Pulling out her gun, she sprints to catch up with Lincoln and eventually sees what he sees. Lucy Gates – or the shape-shifter assuming the role of Lucy Gates, snaking through the crowd, very much aware that she's being tailed. Olivia watches in horror as the figure slowly gets smaller and she disappears into the masses.

There's a scream and chaos surrounds the station concourse.

She forces herself to stop running, stop breathing, stop everything, for one second and just look. Her eyes scan the crowd, searching for the dark-haired woman they needed to find. Her gaze falls on a man, standing against the elevators. His suit-slate grey, a fedora pulled over his head. She's seen him before. Olivia doesn't forget faces, and his is particularly memorable. The man raises his eyes and locks gazes with her and suddenly, she feels queasy. The static on her walkie buzzes and Lincoln's voice comes through. "Men's bathroom. Security cameras picked it up a few seconds ago."

Pushing herself to go further, Olivia throws off her inertia and fights through the crowd to make her way into the men's bathroom. It's empty and Olivia holds her gun tightly in her right hand which is resting on her left wrist – it throbs painfully in memory of the last time she was running through a station after this thing. She moves to all the lavatory doors, kicking against them and her breath stills for second at the sight of the body in the last cubicle. Olivia takes a look at the dead man for a split second, her brain recording his aged face, his work-suit, his sandy hair. And then she's running, running past Lincoln who has just reached the bathrooms. Past the two guards who are still looking for Lucy Gates, past the scared-looking commuters…until she sees him. The walking body of the dead man. He's moving with confidence, as if he has nothing to fear, nothing to lose. With two steps, Olivia raises her gun and shoots.

Two bullets.

Straight in the head.

The crowd screams, the guards run towards her and Lincoln's confused face meets hers. As far as they know, she just gunned down an innocent man. But he's not innocent. Neither is that silver trail of blood oozing from the hole in his head. She looks down at the dead, annihilated _thing_ lying, bleeding on the ground and for the first time in a long time, Olivia feels like she can breathe.

...

It's nearly twelve hours before she trudges towards her apartment door. Question after question, report after report. The body of the last man the shifter had changed into corroborated her story and William Bell's file was currently in evidence. Olivia doesn't care about the details at this point. All she cares about is that it is over. And the image of those two little girls, murdered so callously, can finally be put to rest. She doesn't realise that her hand is trembling as she inserts the key into the key-hole. Her heart is pounding in the strangest way and she feels…anticipation.

He's in there, she realises as she turns the key. In all the action she'd forgotten about the source of her information. She'd forgotten about him. But now there is no case, no shape-shifter, no phone call from Charlie. Only that kitchen table to separate them. Olivia walks into her apartment and scans the room.

She wants to tell him that he was right. She wants to tell him that she couldn't have done it without him. She wants to tell him that she trusts him. Mostly, she just wants to see him, to prove to herself that she didn't make it up, that those piercing blue eyes, that cocky smile wasn't a fantastically fabricated delusion.

"_Peter?_" she calls out, the sound of his name tasting both strange and familiar on her tongue.

But all that answers is silence and the sound of her heart, still pounding in her ears.

* * *

><p>.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6 : Love

**_A/N: _**Hello beautiful people! As always, this is just a thank you for you wondiferous reviews! Thanks for your feedback and encouragement! It's appreciated and valued and loved so very, very much.

I do hope you enjoy this chapter. Things are going to progress rather rapidly from this point onwards :)

* * *

><p><em>It is Love that holds everything together, and it is the everything also.<em>

**Rumi**

**Chapter 6 – Love**

"Aunt Liv, how do you know when you're in love?"

Olivia looks up from the kitchen counter where she's scooping ice-cream into two bowls. Her 10-year old niece lies sprawled out on the couch, knees in the air, staring fixedly at the ceiling. "I think I'm pretty sure I'm in love, 'cept I'm not sure-sure cause I've never been in love before, so how do you know? When you're in love I mean?"

Olivia bites on her bottom lip to hold back a smile. This from the girl who a year ago pointedly told her that boys were _totally gross_.

"Uh, well-" Olivia plonks two spoons into the bowls and prepares to make her way towards the couch.

"It's just that when he smiles at me, Aunt Liv, I get sort of squishy feelings inside, like my tummy's made outta custard and this morning, he asked to use my 2b pencil, cause he left his at home and I only had one and it's my favourite pencil, but I let him use it even though it's my favourite so does that mean I'm in love cause of the custard tummy and the pencil?" She takes a deep breath and looks at her aunt with a serious expression that has Olivia fighting back a grin.

"Uh...I think it means that you care for this boy, Ella," she says somewhat placidly, handing the little girl her ice-cream.

"Yeah, but is it looooove?" the girl wants to know, her mouth now full of Rocky-Road.

Olivia pulls her spoon from her lips and pretends to think, giving due seriousness to the situation. "Let's see. How long have you known…what's his name?"

"His name's Tommy Nadir. He transferred to our school this morning. He's perfect," she says with a dreamy expression that has Olivia smirking.

"So, um…you've known him for a whole day, sweetheart?"

"Yeah," Ella says, her eyes still glazed over, "And he's perfect. He's perfect, Aunt Liv." Her gaze suddenly shifts to Olivia. "Have _you_ ever been in love, Aunt Liv?"

The question catches Olivia off-guard, which is surprising, since ten-year old logic isn't that hard to follow and this question was bound to come up at some point or another. Still, she finds herself looking down, swirling the last of her ice-cream in her bowl until it's nothing but a goopy-mess.

She looks up and gives Ella a sad smile. "I was…a long time ago."

"Was it magical?" the little girl asks her eyes wide, her mouth stained with chocolate. "Did you share pencils?"

Olivia's tempted to say that they shared a whole lot more than that…consciousness's for example. But instead says, "Yeah, for a time it was." She gently tucks stray hairs out of Ella's face.

Her niece beams, seemingly satisfied by the answer. "What was his name?"

She's surprised at how much it doesn't hurt to think about it. She wonders if time really is the healer of all wounds. She looks down at her gorgeous young niece, all innocence and wonder and genuinely smiles. "His name was Pet-John. His name was John." Olivia corrects herself almost immediately, but the slip-up scalds her tongue.

She feels suddenly light-headed, as if she'd stood up too fast and the world was spinning. Ella is saying something, her face taking on that smitten expression again, but Olivia doesn't quite hear the words, her mind racing. It felt so natural, so incredibly _right _to use the first name, yet it made no sense.

"-and then Mary said that he told her that he likes drawing too and then I told Mary that just cause he likes drawing doesn't mean nothing."

"Anything," Olivia corrects absently.

"What, Aunt Liv?"

"It doesn't mean anything," she repeats, wiping the ice-cream off Ella's cheek.

Her niece nods fervently. "Yeah, that's what I told Mary. So then she said-" Ella's words are cut off as the front door opens and Rachel enters with a smile.

"Knock, knock," she sing-songs, grinning at her two favourite people.

"Mom!" Ella bounces off the couch. "Aunt Liv took me to a movie and then we went to the park and then we had ice-cream and-"

"Yeah, I see," Rachel interjects, casting an amused look at her sister as she wipes the last bit of chocolate off her daughter's chin. "Honey, go get your things, the cab's waiting downstairs."

"Oh, but mom, Aunt Liv and I were having a _conversation_." She says this with a low voice, as if to impart the gravity of the situation.

Rachel furrows her brow, attempting her best 'serious-face', "Honey, I'm sure you can continue this 'conversation'" her amused gaze flicks up to meet Olivia's for a second, "on the telephone. Now get your things."

Ella looks like she might protest, but Olivia steps up behind her and engulfs her in a hug, "Go listen to your mom, sweetheart. We'll talk some more on the phone, okay?"

Ella looks back at her aunt, her eyes registering so much love and trust that Olivia feels momentarily overwhelmed. "Okay, Aunt Liv." And then she's off, bounding towards the bedroom.

Rachel shakes her head. "Thanks again, Liv. I know I sort of sprang this on you, but Greg was supposed to take her and-"

"Rach," Olivia shoots her sister a reassuring smile. "Come on, you know how much I love spending time with Ella. It's not a problem. How did the meeting go?"

Rachel gives a half shrug. "Oh, it's all the same. Boring." They share a laugh as Ella comes traipsing back in, backpack slung over her shoulder.

"Hey mom, can we get Chinese for dinner?"

"We'll see."

"Is 'we'll see' a yes?"

"It's a 'we'll see'. Now say goodbye to Aunt Liv."

Olivia watches this exchange with amusement before bending down and placing a noisy kiss on her niece's cheek. "Stay safe, baby girl."

"I will," Ella answers, hugging her tightly.

Olivia stands by the door as she watches them go, her heart warm from the interaction and infinitely grateful for the stability of her family. Despite the constant unravelling of her world, they're the one thing that remains constant, the one thing she continues to fight for. She closes the door gently once they're out of sight, preparing to spend the evening in quiet solitude. Kaufman's "Invasion of the Bodysnatchers" is playing at nine and she thinks she might catch it before bed. In light of the recent case, it seems morbidly appropriate.

"Ella's gotten really big."

She whips around at the sound of the voice, her entire body immediately responding to the specific cadence and inflection.

He's standing in the doorway of her bedroom; leaning casually against the doorframe as if he's being there is the most natural thing in the world. On his face is that smirk that tugs at something deep inside of her and she fights the urge to take a step towards him.

"Hey," he says softly, when it becomes clear that she isn't going to speak. Those green eyes assess him with warily, but she'd be lying if she denies the fact that it feels as if she's just taken a shot of pure caffeine. Just the sight of him makes her entire body _zing_.

"Hey," she replies almost on autopilot. "You were gone." The words come out of her mouth before she can think about them. "I thought…" she cocks her head to the side, her gaze still fixed on his solid form. "It's been almost two weeks."

His eyes go dark and that smirk is gone. "It was longer." He says this softly. "For me it was longer."

"Peter?" Those two syllables wrap around her tongue like a familiar taste and she swallows unconsciously.

His face shifts as that self-assured mask crumbles under the sound of his name from her lips. He looks, she thinks…beautifully vulnerable. And suddenly it's too much. The room is thick with everything they're not saying and she feels as if she's about to suffocate.

"You were right about the shape-shifter," she says, trying to ease out of the murky water they were wading in. "Bell confessed."

Peter crosses his arms over his chest and nods. "And the shifter?"

"Dead," Olivia says.

The smirk returns.

"You're not surprised," she observes.

"Why would I be?" he walks towards her now, a slow saunter that has her twitching to move towards him or away from him, she can't decide which. "You're Olivia Dunham," he states simply as if this fact alone justifies his lack of surprise.

"And that means what to you exactly?" her voice quivers ever so slightly as he takes another step closer and she prays her doesn't notice.

"It means that I've known you long enough to know that you rarely, if ever, fail."

Her face clouds over and she does take that step back. "I'm not sure who you think you know, but it's not me."

"Olivia." He says her name like he knows her, like he's seen what she's capable of. And she has to remind herself that he wasn't there when the hotel vanished, when all those people died. He wasn't there to see her fail. "Hey," he says, suddenly pointing his thumb towards the kitchen. "You want coffee? I'd kill for a cup. I haven't had coffee in ages."

The non-sequitur is so unexpected that she laughs. An actual short burst of laughter that has him grinning and the shadows behind her eyes fleeing. "Sure," she says with a resigned sigh, "Why not?"

He motions for her to sit down on the couch while he busies himself in the kitchen. She's fascinated by the way he moves with such ease and confidence, as if he's done this a hundred times before. She takes the moment to unabashedly study him. Unlike the other times he's appeared, he's not wet or naked (not that she's disappointed, she tells herself). He's wearing a faded jeans and green sweater that looks like its seen better days. She knows the body underneath those clothes is hard and lean. She thinks about hardened angles, obviously due to strenuous activity, and muscles that wouldn't have shown if he'd been eating well. Unconsciously, her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip.

He approaches with two mugs of coffee and offers one to her. "Black, one sugar," he says with a strange look before she can say anything.

"How did you?" And suddenly it's too much. It's too intimate. Too…right. Being around a stranger shouldn't feel this…comfortable. And yet it does. And she wants to know why. She _needs_ to know. So, she takes the coffee from him, scoots over and says in a voice that invites little argument, "Tell me everything."

She watches as those blue eyes almost imperceptibly turn bluer, colder, as if he's retreating. But he sighs and nods and looks down at his hands and she realizes, with some surprise, that he's nervous. "Peter?" Her hand goes to his knee, where it rests lightly. This achieves the desired effect and that aquarium gaze immediately meets hers with such startling intensity that she finds herself holding back a breath. "I need to know," she says softly but firmly.

"I know," he replies. He opens his mouth as if he's about to begin then breaks into a smile that hints at frustration. "I swear I've practiced this so many times, but it's just…" He shakes his head, struggling to convey himself articulately. "Look, where I come from, it's like this place, but different. It's the same world. Your world."

"An alternate universe?" Olivia ventures.

"I'm not sure," Peter replies with a half-shrug. "All I know is that I'm the only one left. Everyone I know, everyone I cared about, they all disappeared after the Bridge. You, Walter…"

Olivia arches an eyebrow, "Wait, so…you worked with Walter?"

Peter's face breaks into a genuine grin. "You could say that."

"So how are you here?"

"I don't know. But, when I saw you on the subway in New York, it because I was on that train at that exact moment. Except it's abandoned and broken down. I was looking for something for a project I'm working on. And then suddenly I was in New York. Your New York, but I don't think anyone else could see me. And then in a few seconds it was over and I was back on my side."

"And then I was shot," she murmurs, remembering now. Seeing him on the train, the way the world stopped and nothing existed except for him.

"I thought it was a fluke," he continues, "so I came to your apartment, I stood outside for hours and then in that split second, the door opened and you were on the other side of it. I think, I think that if we're in the same place geographically, you can sort of, pull me over for a time."

Her brow furrows slightly as she absorbs this information. "So you're saying that if you're in my apartment over there and I'm in my apartment over here, I can see you?"

"Yes."

"So why do you leave? I mean, you disappeared in my doorway at one point."

Peter shrugs a shoulder. "That I don't know. It's like I'm here and then I'm not and when I'm back there, I don't know when I'll see you again." He looks past her shoulder at the door, "Sometimes, I don't know if I'll ever see you again." His eyes go back to hers and she feels that now familiar tug on her insides, "I figured that if I stayed in your apartment, over there, the chances of seeing you would be greater, so that's what I've been doing."

"You've been living in my apartment…over there?" She's not quite sure what she's feeling. On any other occasion she'd feel slightly…violated, but the entire situation is so absurd and surreal that she doesn't know how to process it. "How is it possible that I can, 'pull you over' as you say?"

"I don't know," Peter counters. "Cortexiphan?"

Her eyes narrow. "I still don't know how you know about all of this. Shape-shifters, Bell, Cortexiphan, my coffee," her voice trembles slightly on that last one and she hates herself for it. "How close were we?" she asks in a quiet voice. He had said they were together. She remembers that. Of course she remembers that, just like she remembers the dozen other intimate things he said about her that no-one but a lover, a best friend could know. But the truth is too jarring, to unbelievable, to comprehend. And part of her, the part of her that realizes her hand is still on his knee and has no intention of moving it, really just wants to hear him say it.

He's watching her with that expression that tells her he's restraining himself. Like he's holding back. But there's something behind his eyes. Something almost desperate that seems to leap out and grab hold of her. "How close were we?" she asks again, softer this time.

"Close," he says.

One word. It hangs in the air between them. Suspended in the thick tension.

And then she's leaning forward. And it makes no sense because she's known him for an accumulative time of 2 hours. And it makes no sense because in every regard, he's a perfect stranger. And it makes no sense…but as Olivia's gaze gets lost in that wild blue, she loses any notion of sense.

Until the phone rings.

And Peter swears.

Loudly.

And Olivia psychically extricates herself from him and leans back to answer her furiously ringing phone. The generic ringtone seems to echo in the apartment.

"Hello?" she asks, slightly out of breath.

The voice on the other end is crackling and breathless.

Olivia sits straight up immediately clutching the phone so tight that her knuckles are white. "Elizabeth, slow down. Where are you? What's happened?" She hears the older woman take a breath. And feels her body go numb as she listens to what Elizabeth says.

"I'll be right there," she responds automatically before putting down the phone.

"What's wrong?" Peter asks, taking in her ashen face and troubled eyes.

"That was Elizabeth Bishop," she says evenly, barely registering the awe on Peter's face. "Walter's had a stroke."


	7. Chapter 7 : A Good Father

**A/N: **Hey all! So, I baked cookies over the weekend and they were awesome and if I could, I would send you all an awesome!cookie in return for all your awesome reviews. Sadly, you'll have to settle for what has been my favourite chapter to write so far. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it XD

* * *

><p><em>"When one has not had a good father, one must create one.<em>_"_

**~ Friedrich Nietzsche**

**Chapter 8 – A Good Father**

_Olivia sits straight up immediately clutching the phone so tight that her knuckles are white. _

"_Elizabeth, slow down. Where are you? What's happened?" She hears the older woman take a breath. And feels her body go numb as she listens to what Elizabeth says._

"_I'll be right there," she responds automatically before putting down the phone._

"_What's wrong?" Peter asks, taking in her ashen face and troubled eyes._

"_That was Elizabeth Bishop," she says evenly, barely registering the awe on Peter's face. "Walter's had a stroke."_

_..._

Olivia's already halfway to the door, her coat in one hand, when she feels Peter's fingers curl around her wrist. It's the first time he's touched her since he's been back and the contact rattles her.

"I'm going with you," he says, causing her gaze to flare upwards.

"What?" She doesn't understand. All she hears is Elizabeth's panicked voice in her head. She calmly goes through the motions of gathering her keys and coat, but inside, she's a mess. All she can think about is getting to that hospital.

Peter's eyes bore into hers and he looks almost as shaken as she feels. "I'm going with you," he repeats, his voice slightly hoarse. "Look, Walter means something to me too. I want to come."

"Will he-" she shakes her head in confusion, "I mean, will anyone but me be able to see you?"

"I don't think so," he answers. "I just," Peter exhales shakily and runs a hand over his face. "Look, I need to see them. _Please_."

He sounds so broken, so desperate, that she only nods before fumbling with her keys and unlocking the door.

"Did my-did Elizabeth say anything else?" he asks as they walk down the hallway.

Olivia shakes her head. "Just that they're at Boston County General."

"Is he still living in Cambridge?"

She gives him a sidelong glance as they walk towards the outside doors. "They do, yeah. How exactly do you know the Bishops?"

When Peter doesn't reply, Olivia turns around to find that she's alone in the hallway. Completely and utterly alone. For a moment she considers running back up to her apartment to see if he managed to find his way back there, but her desperation to get to Walter overrides the sinking feeling born from Peter's absence. Only just.

It's dark by the time she pulls up in the hospital parking lot. Her thoughts zig-zag between Peter and Walter and she finds herself incredibly anxious to know if Peter's still on this plane of reality or whether he disappeared again. And if so for long _this_ time? Her thoughts begin to idle back to the moment before the phone call, but then Elizabeth Bishop's weathered face comes into view and Olivia's only focus is on the weary woman in front of her.

"Oh Olivia," Elizabeth takes the younger woman in her arms and holds her tightly. Olivia's not sure who she's comforting, but she hugs back. "How is he?" she asks, once Elizabeth pulls away.

"He's in surgery. The doctors say it was a blood clot which interrupted his blood supply to the brain." She waves her hand breezily, "Walter could probably explain it better. I'm just…" the older woman looks at her with a vulnerable gaze, "I'm scared, Olivia. His brain is already so…fragile. I'm scared about what this might do to him."

Olivia gently squeezes Elizabeth's shoulder. "Let's wait to hear from the doctors. Walter's strong." But even as she says it, her heart is pounding, her body is filled with dread. It's funny and a little ironic how much she's come to think of the couple as family. Four years ago, when she had first stepped into St. Claire's, dragging a hesitant Elizabeth along with her, all she had wanted was a solution to her problem and Walter Bishop was that solution, easy as that. Somewhere along the way, he became more. He and Elizabeth and even Astrid became her sort of surrogate family, which was something she'd never really had before. It was always her and Rachel, sort of trekking through the wilderness of life after their mother's death and even then, she'd always felt like the responsible one, like it was her job to protect her younger sister. There was never anyone to protect her, to look after her. Until the day Elizabeth Bishop showed up at her apartment six months after they had officially begun investigating the Fringe cases. They were worried about her, Elizabeth said. Astrid mentioned that she was even more distant than usual, Elizabeth said. Walter complained that she had snapped at him, Elizabeth said. And Olivia, looking into the eyes of the other woman, couldn't lie. So she told her what day it was, and she told her about her step-father and she told her about her guilt and the shame and the anger and the fear and she cried and cried while Elizabeth held her. And afterwards, Elizabeth made them tea, because she was English and she insisted that she made tea better than the 'yanks'. After the first sip, Olivia declared she was right.

They're sitting in the waiting room as Olivia tries desperately not to look up at the clock for the hundredth time. She's never been good at waiting. Her fingers drum the armrest of the chair impatiently until she does eventually look at the bright red clock on the wall. _10:15._

"Did you drive here?" Olivia murmurs, turning to Elizabeth. "I thought I saw Walter's station wagon in the parking lot."

Elizabeth nods and rubs her eyes in tiredness. "Y-yes. We were here for…something else. I needed a check-up. We were on our way to the car when it happened." She swallows at the memory, "I thought he was having a heart attack at first," she says quietly. "But then-"

"Mrs Bishop?" A tall man in dark blue scrubs rounds the corner and both women stand.

"Yes?" Elizabeth's voice is strong, but she reaches out for Olivia's hand. The doctor stops in front of them and offers a small, reassuring smile.

"The surgery went well. Your husband's condition is stable. We can't know the full extent of his neurological damage until he wakes."

Elizabeth is nodding frantically as she takes in what the doctor says. "So he'll be able to speak and walk?"

"Well, the full extent of his functions will only be evident after he wakes up, so I can't honestly say how well he'll be able to do either, but we do have an excellent rehabilitation programme for stroke victims. Perhaps I'll give the paperwork to your daughter while the nurse takes you to see your husband?"

Both women nod, neither of them bothering to correct the doctor.

Olivia surveys the necessary paperwork with a hasty glance, eager to get back to Elizabeth, but also knowing that she should give the woman time with her husband.

As she makes her way back down her hall, she catches a glimpse of a man she's seen at least twice in the last three weeks. A man in a suit and a fedora. A man who makes her feel decidedly uneasy. As they make eye contact, Olivia walks towards him and he turns around, picking up his pace as she nears.

"Stop," she calls out, as he turns into a door leading to the stairwell. "FBI, stop!"

She's running now, trying to keep up. She crashes through the door and looks down the spiral staircase. But everything is silent and empty. There's not trace of the man. There's no trace of anything.

"Is everything okay?"

She turns to find a nurse. Appraising her with a worried expression. Olivia nods and walks past the woman. She's got too much on her mind to worry about strangely dressed stalkers. She makes a note to search the FBI database for his face when she gets back to work.

After about ten minutes, she knocks gently on the door-frame of the ICU room, alerting Elizabeth of her presence.

The older woman sits beside the bed where Walter lays, unconscious, but stable. The steady beep of the monitors is strangely comforting. She approaches gingerly, and is surprised at how affected she is by the sight of Walter Bishop lying there - so helpless, so vulnerable. They've had their fair share of scares in the years they've worked together. She absently recalls one time Walter got lost in China Town and she and Astrid scoured the streets until they found him sitting in a noodle bar, speaking broken Cantonese to a teenage boy. But she can't remember him ever being this…fragile. And it scares her. It scares her because whether she wants to admit it or not, Walter Bishop is the closest thing she's ever had to a father.

She feels a gentle tug on her hand, and Elizabeth looks up at her from her chair. Her eyes weary, but less anxious. Seeing her husband must have eased her somewhat. "Olivia, I just wanted to thank you for coming here. For being here for us," her gaze shifts to the bed, "for Walter."

Olivia's fingers tighten around the older woman's. "Of course." She wants to say more, she wants to tell Elizabeth how much they mean to her, how much she's come to care for them, but the words ball up in her throat and she swallows them down. "I'm here whenever you need me," she says instead.

"You don't have to stay," Elizabeth says. "I'll be with him and I'll update you, but you've done so much already by just being here."

"Do you need anything? Anything I can get you from home? Anything of Walter's?"

Elizabeth shakes her head and offers up a rueful smile. "We still have a bag packed in the trunk. One Astrid packed almost a year ago in case of emergencies. After the grocery store incident."

Olivia chuckles lightly. "I remember."

Elizabeth pats her hand. "Go home, get some rest."

She's about to protest until she realises that Elizabeth might actually want to be alone with Walter, so she nods and says, "Okay. I'll call you in the morning." She's almost at the door when Elizabeth speaks.

"He's always thought of you as a daughter you know."

Olivia turns slightly, Elizabeth's face is covered by shadow, but her voice is clear. "We couldn't, I mean we tried to have children but…I suppose it wasn't in the cards for us. If anything happens to Walter," her voice is softer now, "he-he'd want you to know. He couldn't have been prouder if you'd been his own."

Olivia's heart pounds heavily in her chest as she takes this in and she nods once, not trusting her own voice before walking into the brightly lit corridor and away from the Bishops.

The drive home is quiet. The roads are empty, the night is silent and the only thing buzzing is the noise in Olivia's head. She needs Walter to be alright. The admission, even to herself is scary. Olivia rarely needs anything. But this, this she needs. If she was religious in any sense, she'd pray and she's beginning to understand the appeal, but after the last three years, after a childhood of abuse, she has no place for religious dogma in between everything else and so all she does is hope. She hopes Walter will survive this. She hopes she won't have to bury another parent. And somewhere, in the back of her mind, as she walks towards her front door, she hopes Peter will be on the other side of it.

**...**

It's strange to see someone in her apartment before she enters it. It's been so long since anyone else has shared this space with her. But her heart rate increases, her mouth goes dry and she can barely contain the sigh of relief that escapes her lips when her eyes fall on his form, sitting on her couch, his elbows on his knees, his head buried in his hands. The initial relief is soon replaced with concern as she reads his body language. His posture screams distress and she closes the door softly behind her before hanging her coat up on the rack. He doesn't lift his head, not even when she approaches.

"Peter?" She's apprehensive and stops just short of the couch. The sound of her voice finally has him moving, as he lifts his head, his eyes meeting hers with such raw intensity that she fights to not step back. His eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that she constantly finds herself drowning in are red-rimmed as if he'd been crying, yet that's something she can hardly conceive of. Everything about him is so…solid and strong. The thought of him in tears shakes her. So, she fights her instincts, or perhaps she finally listens to them, and she takes a step forward. "What's the matter?"

He doesn't take his eyes off hers, but his face changes, his jaw clenches as he visibly tries to keep control and for a millisecond she scared. The intensity on his face, the force is almost overwhelming. He releases a measured breath and says, "I can't do this." He gets up as if he's about to go somewhere, but just stops and looks at her.

"Do what?" she asks slowly.

"This," Peter motions around the room. "Whatever this is. This coming and going, I can't…" he digs the heels of his hands against his eye sockets. "It's not supposed to be like this," he mumbles.

"Peter?" she tries again, taking another step towards him, closing the gap between them. "Why was it so important for you to come with me to the hospital?"

"I haven't seen him for over a year, Olivia," he says, his voice lost now, like that of a boy, and Olivia finds herself resisting the urge to reach up and push his hair off his forehead. A gesture of comfort that she wouldn't ordinarily initiate, but for some reason seems so _right_. But she holds back, and watches him fall apart in front of her. "I haven't seen my father since the Bridge."

"Walter," she breathes.

And his eyes mist over in confirmation. He looks away, past her shoulder, unable to meet her gaze, unable to show her everything he's been holding back. And she sees him struggle, she sees his body tremble as he grieves for everything he's lost and suddenly she feels it, as if she had lost it too, except she didn't. Hesitantly, she lays a hand on his chest, above his rapidly beating hard. The pounding against her palm has her breath quickening and his eyes drag back to hers, questioning, but also hopeful, for the first time, hopeful. She wants to say something, to comfort, to console, but words have never been her strength and so she acts.

Her lips touch his in a tentative kiss, barely brushing, barely tasting. But it's enough and his breath is warm against her mouth. And it's as if something inside of her breaks, as if she's been held up by a thin rod which he snaps as he jerks her forward. And their mouths fuse hungrily now, without preamble, without hesitation. There's no gentle introduction, but desperate exploration. She barely hears herself moan into his mouth as his tongue meets hers and she tastes him fully. And there's something so familiar, so comforting, so intimate about the way he's touching her, his one hand gripping her upper arm, pulling her impossibly closer, the other snaking down her back and she melts into him and they fit. She absently thinks _they fit_, before he groans and then she's not thinking much at all. And this feels so right, this feels so perfect that suddenly, she's terrified. Terrified because kissing him feels like home and she has no idea how to even begin to understand what that means. His mouth moves to nip at her jaw and her eyes shoot open at the sensation before she realises the world is impossibly bright. Except…it's not the world, but him. It's almost as if he's…

Olivia pulls back, and he stares at her with confusion, but it's not his expression she's concerned with, so much as the bright glow that surrounds him.

"What?" he asks, his voice laced in concern as her eyes dart over his face and the shimmery glow that bounces off it.

"Y-you're glowing," she breathes, unable to tear her eyes away from him.

Self-consciously, he runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. "You're scared."

"I-I'm…yes, but how?" And then it hits her as if someone had just punched her in the stomach and she takes a step back. "The glimmer," she murmurs through her fingers. "You're from the other side?" It's a question, but she knows the answer.

He nods.

"Then how are you-" Olivia puts her hands in her pockets and looks down before meeting his gaze again. She feels strangely vulnerable and the glow around him is distracting. "I thought you were Walter's son."

"I am." He says this firmly, with conviction. "I was born…over there. Walterna-um, The Secretary is my biological father. When I was eight, Walter crossed over and brought me here."

"Why?"

"It's-" he takes a step towards her and she holds her hand up in a defensive gesture and he makes a show of backing off. "It's kind of a long story" he says. She brings her hands up to her face in frustrated huff and he sighs. "Look, Olivia, I want to be honest with you. I want to tell you everything. I just-"

"You don't think I can handle it?" she asks, her tone clipped.

"No," he takes that step forward now, until he's almost closed the gap between them again. "No, I just don't want it to be a case of too much too soon. I don't want to scare you away."

"I'm not scared," she says softly and he smirks.

"Am I still glowing?"

She nods then looks away. "I still don't understand."

"What do you mean?"

"We tried…before. It didn't work. I couldn't identify anything from the other side. I was supposed to see…" she looks back to him, "Well I guess I was supposed to see this, but I never did."

He frowns. "But…Jacksonville? I remember, I was there. You came back and spotted the hotel -"

"No." Her cuts him off sharply and he looks at her in surprise. "No, that's not how it happened." Olivia walks away from him and sits down on the edge of the couch. She puts her hands together, as if she's praying and rests her chin on her fingertips. Her eyes are unfocused, looking past him, so she won't have to see the glimmer, the reminder of her failure.

But then he's next to her, not close enough to touch, but his presence is magnetic. They don't have to be touching for her to feel him. "What happened?" he asked softly.

"Nothing." Her voice is flat, devoid of the emotion she really feels. "Nothing happened. Walter gave me the Cortexiphan. I hallucinated. We realised that fear was the trigger, but… I couldn't make it work. I didn't see anything." She wipes her nose absently, "I failed."

"'Livia-"

"No." She doesn't want his comfort or support. She doesn't want him to make her feel better. And it scares her, because she knows that he could. With just a touch, with just a kiss, he could. So she shuts her eyes. "No. Those people died because there's something wrong with me. Because I can't feel anything."

She feels his fingers under her chin and opens her eyes. Those swirling blue irises are staring back at her. "What are you feeling right now?" he asks, his voice a bare whisper.

"I-I'm scared," she breathes. Her heart is beating so hard, she's surprised he can't hear it.

"What else?" he murmurs, leaning in closer.

"Something," she swallows. "Something I can't explain."

"There's nothing wrong with you, Olivia," he says. He says because he was never there for her to hear it. "You're the most extraordinary person I've ever met."

"You don't know me," she counters. "And I don't know you."

"You know you feel something you can't explain."

She exhales a trembling breath and sweeps her eyes across his face. "Peter?"

"What?" He pulls back slightly and inspects his hand. "Am I still glowing?"

She leans in slightly and shakes her head. "No."

* * *

><p>...<p> 


	8. Chapter 8 : Heartbeat

**_A/N: _**All I can say is that I reeeeeaally apologise for the long wait between this chapter and the last. RL kind of kicked me in the butt and left me internetless for a while. I do hope you enjoy this one and as always, THANK YOU SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO MUCH for all your amazing comments and reviews :)

* * *

><p><em>Unexpectedly and secretly, the giant heartbeat enters out being, so that we scream<em>

**~ Rainer Maria Rilke **

**Chapter 8: Heartbeat**

**...**

There's something strangely mesmerising about the three-dimensional logo bouncing around on her computer screen. She watches as it lands and swerves, her mind pleasantly fuzzy and distracted.

"Anything good on TV?"

The sound of the voice drags her attention away from the standard FBI screensaver and towards the door of her office where Charlie stands with an amused smirk.

"You know if you keep this up, you're gonna have me wondering if Bell had you replaced with one of his shifter things."

She removes her glasses and raises her brow curiously. "Keep what up?"

"That…thing you're doing with your face." Charlie comes in and unceremoniously plops down on the chair opposite her desk. "It's like…an upturn of your lips. If I didn't know you better, I'd call it a smile." He looks at her teasingly and she tries to suppress the urge to grin.

"Ha. Ha," she says, struggling to maintain a poker face.

"I'm serious, Liv." Charlie's dark eyes take on a sombre shade. "You look good. I like seeing you smile."

This time, she allows the warmth she's feeling inside to take over and her face softens. "Thanks, Charlie," she says softly.

He looks as if he's about to say more, but then shakes his head barely perceptively and stands up. "Uh, Farnsworth wanted me to remind you that we're all going for drinks this evening. Apparently Kent's divorce just came through."

She puckers her lips almost disapprovingly. "And we're celebrating that?"

"Hey, we gotta get our kicks somewhere." He shrugs a shoulder, "besides, he's buying the first round, so…" He watches her with curiosity. "If you've got other plans, Livvy…"

"I don't," she says quickly, then glances at the date on her monitor. "I don't."

"Okay." He gives her one last appraising glace before standing up. "I meant what I said," he mutters softly. "It's good to see you smiling."

She nods and ducks her head, self-conscious under his scrutiny.

Once he leaves, Olivia deflates somewhat. She's been back at work for just under a week. A week of catching up on overdue reports, case files and strategy meetings. A week of nodding to co-workers in greeting, a week of pleasantries and thin-lipped smiles. A week of private moments when she felt so giddy, so light-headed that she wondered if she'd somehow been dosed with something.

But the cause of her new-found euphoria isn't a mystery, though she has difficulty admitting it, even to herself.

It's been four days since she's last seen him. It was Tuesday when he disappeared sometime between making popcorn for the movie and telling her about one of the cases he remembered working on with her. Something about a substance called Osmium. She has no recollection of anything to do with floating bodies. He was halfway through his tale when it just went quiet. And then he was gone. Again.

She's grown accustomed to it. This phantom coming and going, the loneliness that settles once he's gone, the excitement that spreads at the sound of his voice.

After Walter's stroke, after she discovered Peter to be his son, after they kissed, she felt ripped open and utterly exposed. She'd never before been so dependent on another human being for comfort. Yet even the word _comfort_ seemed to fall short. It was more than that. Being around Peter filled something inside of her. He healed something she hadn't even realised was wounded.

That night, on the couch, she had leaned towards him, expecting a repeat of their previous kiss, but there was no hunger or desperation. His mouth was gentle, soothing and she found herself sighing into him as if being enfolded. And then his lips were on her forehead in a kiss that told her not about lust, but about protection and safety and Olivia allowed herself to be protected. And when Peter's arms had come around to cradle her, she closed her eyes and for the first time in forever, falling asleep was easy.

When she woke up, he was gone and two days later, at two am, his low voice filled her apartment as he flicked on the coffee-maker and hummed a Frank Sinatra tune that sounded vaguely familiar. And so it went on. Sometimes, she'd come home, and he'd be there, sometimes he'd show up while she was sleeping or reading or doing performing some other mundane activity and he'd pull her out of her obscure thoughts and make her laugh. Once, he'd just arrived and walked into the bathroom while she was reaching for a towel to wrap around her still-wet body. He murmured an apology and turned around, but she caught the way his eyes lingered for just a moment and she couldn't help but wish he had stayed.

They didn't kiss again. Touching was limited as well. It was as if he was waiting for her to approach him, yet she didn't, she couldn't take that step, not when she wasn't sure if she was going to wake up next to an empty space.

They talked though. They talked about everything. He told Olivia about his childhood, his memories and what he remembered of her. She could tell he was selective with his information, but she didn't push. They had time, she told herself, even when it felt like a lie.

It's nearing 6pm when Astrid knocks on her office door before making her way towards the chair that a surprising number of people have been occupying of late.

It's funny, Olivia muses as the younger woman makes herself comfortable, how they went from co-workers to friends without the typical bonding rituals of the twenty-something female. There were no shared stories over apple martinis or the borrowing of shoes. Instead, she taught the younger agent how to pull a trigger without blinking and kept her company as she dissected worms for Walter. Saving universes tended to bring people together she supposed.

"Are you still coming tonight?" Astrid asks casually, but Olivia picks up on the hopefulness in her tone.

"Between you and Charlie, do I really have a choice?" she asks wryly.

The younger agent ducks her head with a laugh. "We're just – it'll be good for you," Astrid says, changing the track of wherever her sentence was going.

When Olivia smiles back at her, there's genuine affection in her eyes.

"Have you heard anything about Walter recently? I haven't been to see him since he got released from the hospital." Astrid says softly and Olivia's face falls slightly.

"Elizabeth says he's doing better," she says with a nod. "He uh, apparently refuses speech-therapy because he's convinced that he can rework the synapses in his brain himself, so-"

Astrid rolls her eyes. "Well, at least he's still Walter."

Olivia idly runs her finger along her desk. "Yeah," she mutters. Since Peter, everything's changed. Everything she knows to be true _isn't._ It's a difficult concept to wrap her mind around. She's not even sure if he's right. Perhaps he's the one with the false memories. But the hole she's been living with for as long as she can remember seems to tell her otherwise. It's strange how the mere presence of another human being has rerouted her entire internal mapping. Her fundamental core is in question.

"Olivia, are you okay?" Astrid breaks her out of her thoughts and she nods.

"I'm fine. I'll see you later?"

It seems to be what she wants to hear, because the younger agent smiles and stands up. "You know the place, right? Opposite the old Rosencrantz building."

Olivia thinks for a moment. The pub doesn't sound familiar, but she's sure her GPS will find it.

...

The place isn't hard to find. Finding parking along the sleet-ridden Boston streets proves slightly more challenging and Olivia is grateful for the warmth that envelopes her once she steps into the pub. She's come straight from the office, having resisted the temptation to go home first. If he was there, she knows she wouldn't have left. How do you tell someone who crosses universes for brief periods just to see you that you've made other plans?

She immediately spots Astrid at the bar, chatting to Kent who looks like he's already had one drink too many. She remembers how excited he was, barely three years before when he announced his engagement. Now it was all crumbling around him. The impermanence of life never fails to rattle her.

She holds up her hand in a brief wave to Astrid and makes her way to the other side of the bar. Looking around, the place suddenly seems more familiar than she'd initially thought, though she's certain she's never been in this particular pub before. She supposes in terms of décor and ambience they all look alike. Her double bourbon arrives swiftly and she takes a welcome sip of the dark liquid.

"I would have picked you for a more of a vodka girl." She turns to her left, where Lincoln Lee is watching her with an admittedly disarming grin. "Or…woman." His brow furrows slightly. "Is girl offensive? I mean, I wouldn't want to offend…" he trails off somewhat sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck.

She returns his smile in kind and glances at the Budweiser in his hand. "I would not have picked you for a beer…guy."

His smile widens and she wonders what it is about him that immediately makes her feel so comfortable. Latent memories of his alternate version, she supposes. The version whose smile was just a little more roguish and whose eyes twinkled with just a little more mischief. The version who looked at her alternate like she was the most perfect thing in any of the universes. She sneaks a glance at Lincoln and realises that he's got one thing in common with his alternate. She finishes her drink in two gulps and looks back to his impressed face.

"Can I buy you another?" he asks with a certain innocence that isn't presumptuous or assuming. It's simple. And her life, she thinks desperately, could do with a dose of simple. So she nods slowly.

"Sure."

...

Olivia isn't a reckless person. She's been told, by her superiors that she's occasionally too impulsive when engaged in a mission and that she's prone to take unnecessary physical risks to acquire her targets, but she isn't reckless. Tonight however, she's feeling somewhat of the latter. She can't tell if it's the alcohol or the way Lincoln Lee's dopey grin lights up his face every time she says something remotely interesting. All she knows is that she's sitting at a table, talking to her co-worker who she is certain is flirting with her as best he knows how.

"So did you always want to be in law enforcement?" Lincoln asks, nursing his fourth beer.

"I pretty much knew that this is what I wanted to do since I was a kid," Olivia replies. She looks down and back up at him. "I can't imagine doing anything else." The first bars of the song whisper out of the jukebox in the corner of the room and Olivia feels her heart clench up. She's suddenly nauseous.

"Well, you're amazing at it," Lincoln says, looking down at her hand on the table as if he's considering reaching for it. "I mean, I've heard stories about the things you've done, cases…"

His voice trails off and all she can hear is that song, that goddamn song, as if it's been amplified through the room.

"…basically it's amazing that you're-"

"I have to go," she says suddenly, standing up so swiftly that she almost knocks the stool over in the process. Lincoln's up in a second, his hand on her shoulder to steady her and she flinches unconsciously. He notices and immediately pulls back.

"Is it—did I say something?" He's like a puppy, she thinks absently. Those eyes registering surprise and hurt.

"No." She says it firmly. "No, I'm just tired. I'm sorry, Lincoln." She manages a tight-lipped smile before walking away from him and out of the stifling pub, just as "Velvet Underground" croons the last verse of _Pale Blue Eyes_.


End file.
